The forest had learned your footsteps long before they did.

You moved low and quiet through the underbrush, bare feet knowing where not to step, breath measured so it wouldn’t carry. The kill had been clean—too clean. A hexapede brought down with practiced precision, organs removed, meat portioned and hidden in a cache you’d dug beneath the roots of a fallen tree. Enough for weeks. Enough to survive.

You never stayed long after a kill.

That was when the sound came—soft, wrong. Not forest. Not prey.

Voices.

You froze.

They weren’t Sky People. No metal stink, no fire-noise, no screaming machines. These voices were deep, steady, moving with purpose. Hunters.

Na’vi.

Your first instinct was to flee. The second—sharper—was to watch.

You tracked them instead.

Three of them moved through the trees like they belonged there. One older, broad-shouldered, carrying authority in the way he stood. Two younger—one calm and alert, the other restless, always shifting his weight. They were close to your caches. Too close.

You hissed without thinking.

The reaction was instant.

A net exploded from the trees, wrapping around your limbs before you could bolt. You fought like an animal—teeth snapping, claws digging, a snarl tearing from your throat as you twisted and thrashed. Someone cursed. Someone shouted your language wrong. Hands grabbed at the net, not you—careful, deliberate.

“Easy!” the older one barked. “Don’t hurt her!”

You bit anyway.

The one who stepped closest took it without pulling back, teeth sinking into his forearm. He hissed through clenched teeth but didn’t strike you. Didn’t even let go.

“Okay,” he said, low and steady, like you were something wild instead of something dangerous. “Get it out. I’m not leaving.”

That made you still.

They brought you back to their village before you could decide whether to fight again.

Hometree rose above you like a living giant, glowing veins pulsing softly in the dimming light. So many eyes. Too many bodies. Too much noise. You lashed out again when hands reached for you—scratching, snarling, spitting words you barely remembered how to shape.

They didn’t hit you.

They didn’t shout.

They closed ranks.

“You’re safe,” the older one said again, voice firm but not cruel. “No one’s taking you back to the Sky People.”

That word—Sky People—burned. You screamed, fought harder, until exhaustion dragged you down and the world tilted sideways.

When you woke, it was warm.

A fire crackled nearby. Someone had wrapped you in woven hides. You tensed immediately, teeth bared, ready to strike—

—and found someone sitting close enough that if you lunged, you’d hit them.

The calm one from before.

He didn’t move when you woke. Didn’t reach for you. Just stayed where he was, eyes watching without pressure.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You’re in our home.”

Your chest heaved. You searched for exits. Weapons. Threats.

“Name’s Neteyam,” he added, like that mattered. “You don’t have to answer.”

A smaller shape peeked from behind a woven divider, eyes wide with curiosity instead of fear. Another presence lingered near the back, quiet, watching you like she was listening to something you couldn’t hear.

“You’re safe here,” Neteyam said again. “We’ll make sure you eat. Sleep. No one’s making you do anything tonight.”

The older one stepped into view then, towering, scarred, gaze heavy with something you didn’t recognize yet.

“I’m Jake,” he said. “This is my family.”

His eyes softened—just a little.

“And now,” he continued, “you’re under our protection.”

Not a question. Not a threat.

A promise.

Your muscles stayed coiled, ready to spring. You didn’t trust the warmth. Didn’t trust the food they set within reach. Didn’t trust the way they spoke to you like you were young—like you were fragile—like you might break if handled wrong.

But when night settled and the forest grew loud with unfamiliar sounds, someone stayed close enough that you didn’t have to sleep alone.

And when you tried to slip away—

A hand caught your wrist, gentle but unyielding.

“No,” Neteyam said quietly. “Not tonight.”